Private Entry
by footshooter
Summary: I'm posting some private entries to my blog. Don't worry, it's under the guidance of my therapist. She thinks it will help to get things out, but everything's still pretty raw and I'd rather the world wasn't able to access them just yet. Not with how public everything has become. I can't hide them properly but you won't be able to access them. Thanks. John.
1. 19th June

**19****th**** June  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

So this blog nonsense is supposed to help, right? Writing down the grief is meant to help it get through. And I'm hoping it will get through to you, Sherlock, because you and me are the only people who can see these entries. Yes, people will talk (but when do they not) and people will say I'm crazy (refer to earlier bracket) but I just want you to know I'm never giving up on you.

And that's particularly hard to say right now because your funeral is tomorrow and I think if you don't show up at the door before we bury whoevers body that is (I can't think it's yours, I saw it, but I can't) then everything will become real and I'll have to admit you're gone.

I'm not sure I can bear that, Sherlock, I really don't think I can. I'm tearing up just thinking about it.

Mrs Hudson is inconsolable. Me and Molly are really trying, but it's like losing a son to her. Greg's devastated, I don't think he really ever believed anything Moriaty said. We've been for a couple of pints but it turns into a fanboy club and it's starting to get embarrassing. Donovan and Anderson are being dicks, as you'd imagine.

But it's Mycroft that gets me. I would have thought if anyone would know you were still around it would be him but he looks like he's crumbling at the seams. He has dark circles and he's lost about three stone. I know you'd be impressed if you saw him, make a sarcy comment about it being about time.

I keep expecting you to waltz in in your dressing gown (or that damned sheet) whenever it's quiet in the flat because, let's face it, you'd be bored right now. All I've got now is this skull staring at me and a bunch of people trying to be sympathetic.

I think I might get a dog. What do you think? A dog? I saw an advert for some bull terrier pups. I can't work out whether you'd hate it or not. It might break the monotony of life for a while. Give me some company.

Anyway, if you see this then do me a favour and get in touch, okay? I might be on a hiding to nothing, but we'll see. I can't accept that you're dead just yet.

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	2. 22nd June

**22****nd**** June  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

So, yeah, people have freaked out about the blog posts. "What's going on John?" "Why can't I see it John?" "What are you writing John?" "Are you okay John? I'm worried about you." It's all a little bit tiring, people didn't even care this much when I was in Afghanistan.

Anyway, I've left this for a few days because it was your funeral and everything started to sink in a little bit. I've lost my best friend, my flatmate, half of the rent, the food bill card…

I was talking to Mycroft, though, because I don't _feel_ like you've gone. I expected to feel something, a huge upheaval or something. You know? Some way of letting me know that you were gone. Some kind of emptiness. But I haven't and that's given me hope.

All Mycroft said was that he was your brother and surely if someone was going to feel anything it would be him. And he's felt nothing.

I'm not giving up, though. No matter how much of a tit I feel whenever I get an email, thinking it's a comment, or sitting here talking to what is essentially a ghost.

But anyway, Mycroft and me went out for lunch at this scarily posh restaurant and he had a salad. I didn't comment, but I did have a raised eyebrow. He shrugged, said he liked the taste and then pointed out how many calories the dressing had as I was tucking into steak and chips. We then had a ridiculous pudding of ice cream, cheesecake, pie, pretty much everything on the menu. So his diets obviously going well.

I think it helped him. He's trying to help me, anyway, so it's good to know I'm getting through. I mean, the funeral helped him too. It's a good outlet for grief, but he's under a lot of stress and a friendly face always helps. He isn't you, but you're from the same tree.

I said I'd visit your mother with him. I met her at the funeral, she was nothing like I'd expected. She was warm and soft and very kind. She clutched myself and Mycroft's hands when she sat between us on the front row, Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly behind. Some of your homeless network skulking in behind and standing at the back. Henry showed up with Dr Stapleton and so did some of your other ever-faithful customers. The ones who haven't lost faith. They told me, your mum and your brother when they were leaving that they'd never give up. It was a comfort to your mum, which was nice, and she said I must come round for tea.

It's one of the only times I felt no need to point out that we weren't a fucking couple! I mean, she's a Holmes, she must have _known_, but even if she didn't I would rather not crush that last bit of hope because, well, come on. We were living together, eating together and solving crimes together. So to an outsider…

Anyway, I'm seeing Molly soon so I better go change my jeans and put a decent shirt on. And don't even start, it's nothing like that!

I'll say it again, if you're around, get in touch. Don't keep me hanging here, Sherlock.

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	3. 30th June

**30****th**** June  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

Me and Mrs Hudson had a clear-up of the flat today. It was a complete and utter tip. I mean, I've not felt like cleaning or cooking so the take-away boxes and beer cans are bad enough (I'm not drinking alone, I had Greg round!) but your last experiment had congealed and I figured I could do with that table back – even if it is scorched to hell – and it'd be nice to be rid of the decomposing body parts in the freezer.

So we had a complete blitz. All of the normal waste in the bin (I'm still doing the recycling, as much as you took the mick!) and your dodgy waste sent back to Bart's for Molly to dispose of via the proper channels. Sherlock, you had eyeballs, vials of blood, toes, fingers, a friggen _foot_ and something that I don't even want to _think_ about but looked suspiciously like semen in there. I mean, with _food_! Come on!

They're all gone, anyway. So if you do show up like some sort of mental Jesus then you'll have to find some more. And you'll probably have a hard job because Molly will give you such a slap if you turn up on the doorstep of Bart's all "hi, I'm back!" – she's said so!

And I did find the toenails that were growing some sort of fungus hidden on the windowsill, thank you very much. I mean, what the hell do you do with yourself when I'm out the flat?

Forget it, actually, I don't want to know.

Either way, it's tidy, it's dusted, I've had the windows open with the curtains pulled back and it looks a lot less gloomy in here. It even smells half decent. It took a lot of air freshener, but it does.

I've not touched your room though, don't worry. To be honest I'd fear for my life if I tried. You've probably set traps.

Either way it's the little things like that which help on a day to day level, but I still feel like I'd feel different if you were gone. It's like you're in my subconscious, just out of sight, lurking and waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.

God, and if someone said that to me in the surgery I'd have them straight to mental health with a schizophrenia test so I'm just going to shut up there. Knowing my luck, someone'll find out how to get in here and I'll have Mycroft battling to get me out of a padded cell.

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	4. 4th July

**4****th**** July  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

I went on a date last night. With Sarah. We had a lovely time and I came home afterwards half-expecting you to be stood in the doorway with a face on because I'd been out without you (I didn't quite fancy lying at the foot of her bed). Anyway, there were no murderers or third wheels or immediate threats to her well-being so I think I might be back on to something. Not that I'm saying you prevented it in the first place (you did) but it's something else to think about so I invited her over in a couple of days for dinner. See if it can go better than the last time!

I do need to do some shopping and home improvements prior to it, though, so I better get to it. I'm back working at the surgery now so I've got very little free time and sitting typing to a dead man is probably not the most productive way to be spending that. No offense. I'm sure you'd understand.

Although, actually, it's you. You probably wouldn't. You'd throw the hissy fit of the century and mess everything up for me again.

And that was the joy of Sherlock Holmes, huh?

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	5. 9th July

**9****th**** July  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

I had a day off today. It's been pretty productive. Wanna hear?

I've _finally_ found wallpaper to match the living rooms. Which, yes, means your smiley face has _gone_ and the bullet holes in the walls are now covered! The living room is now not only tidy and safe but free of graffiti and other gang-land-esque wall art.

The skull is wearing the deerstalker. I thought I could rename him Sherlock in honour of you replacing him with me. It's a bit big for him, his eye sockets are sort of covered over, but it sort of suits him. It makes the room look less like a nutter lives here, anyway.

I found your cigarettes. In fact, I found a lot of cigarettes. I cut them up and binned them. I also found some other stuff. But we'll not go into that. It's also in the bin. Just in case. But mark my words; we will be having a conversation if you come back.

I'm going to make Sarah my famous carbonara. I mean, if you'll eat it then it must be good. I have actual food and wine in the fridge, a nice table cloth to cover the stains and even a candle! Scented and everything.

Anyway, I'm meeting Greg in the pub. There's a match on that I know you'd whinge about me wanting to see but would follow me to the pub in your designer suit as it is and sit drinking red wine like a pansy when we drank beer and enjoyed the game, pretending you didn't want to be there and were hating every moment but you wouldn't leave and you'd come along every time.

Ugh, I'm getting teary. Anyway. I really must go. No point dwelling on it.

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	6. 14th July

**14****th**** July  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

Date went well. I won't regale you with the gory details but I'm probably going to see a lot more of Sarah from now on. Greg's being a pisstaking bastard, of course. Mrs Hudson is 'glad I've moved on' so long as I never forget you and Molly seems to have taken the hump a little bit but I need to do _something_. I can't just sit and wait for you for the rest of my life. Mycroft is obviously still stalking me too, because he's acting like a right prick, and I know he's always like that but, you know, more than normal.

I'd expect you to throw a hissy fit, but considering all of these people have been telling me to move on because you're _dead _for Christ knows how long now I'd expect them to take it a little bit better. It's not like anything was even going on between you and me, was it? I don't understand the problem and it's starting to piss me off. Sarah's lovely. You didn't like her because you didn't like anyone I spoke to that wasn't you.

I can't be expected to just sit and mope over you for the rest of my life and die a lonely old man with nothing to show for it. They keep telling me to look for opportunities and jump on them, so why the hell-?

Oh, why am I asking you? It's not like you can help. The chance you're even reading this is slim to none.

I'm going out. I've gotta see Harry. Hopefully she's not going to be an arrogant wanker as well.

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	7. 16th July

**16****th**** July  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

She was.

She's told me not to mix Sarah up in my messed up love life. Not again. She asked me why I thought I hadn't hurt her enough already.

Today hasn't been a good day, Sherlock. I miss you. I think I've only just realised how much. Just writing this is like a knife through my heart because I want you here. You'd tell me what to do because you'd be able to tell if I am interested or if it's just because I'm hurting, or sabotage it all anyway so I wouldn't have to make that choice for myself.

Everything seems grey all of a sudden. Grey and stagnant. And boring. I can't help but wonder if this was how you saw life all of the time.

I'm tired and I feel like a total idiot just for writing to you again so I'm going to bed.

Goodnight, Sherlock.

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	8. 30th July

**30****th**** July  
**_Private Entry visible to: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

Okay, Sherlock. I'm ready to give up.

I've put in plenty of things that you'd usually respond to. Tried to force you to come running through the door by remarking about Mycroft's diet, binning your toenails, covering the smiley face on the wall, moving the skull and even by (shock-horror) commenting on my dating. Because, let's face it, you never liked Sarah, did you? And you always loved cock-blocking me.

Erm, so, yes. I'm resigned to letting you go now. I will admit you're dead and stop writing to you. It'll stop people panicking about what's private on my blog, anyway. I still can't delete them entirely from public view.

But, if by any chance you are reading this. Don't take that as I don't want you to come back. Because I do. I'll still harbour a little bit of hope. Probably for the rest of my life. Just a little bit, just so that if you do I can tell people that I was right and they were wrong and I can be the person to have never lost faith in you.

I won't change my number and I won't move out. You know where to find me if you need me. And if you do, don't think about it, Sherlock, just come back. I miss you and I always will. And, yes, you'll probably get a punch but we both know you deserve that.

So, I'll say goodbye for good this time. I'm signing out.

Bye, Sherlock.

**1**** Comment**

**Sherlock Holmes**

3**rd**** September  
**John, I'm sorry. Please answer your phone.


End file.
